Every instinct he had said,go with her.
Override. Take point. Clear the structure. Control the variables.
Instead, he stayed where he was. Because if he went in there, he might not make it back out. And if he didn’t?—
She was alone.
Restraint. He fucking hated it.
She walked with a confidence that was genuine or performed so well the difference didn’t matter. Head up. Pace steady. The jacket—his jacket—making her look like a local in bulky winter layers. He tracked every step she took across the open ground.
His grip shifted on the weapon. Too tight. He forced it loose.
She reached the Apteka, opened the door and went inside. She didn’t look back. If she had, he would have gone after her. The door swung shut behind her, and his world narrowed to that point.
The count started.
One minute.
He scanned the street. The UAZ remained unattended. No movement around it.
Two minutes.
The Stolovaya door opened. A man stepped out, lighting a cigarette as he moved. Heavy jacket. Local posture. No immediate threat signature. He crossed to the Lada, got in, and drove away.
Four minutes.
The pharmacy door stayed closed.
He re-seated his hold on his rifle. Heat crawled relentlessly under his skin. The buildings shimmered, then settled.
Five.
The door opened, and Harper stepped out. A tiny shake of her head.
No antibiotics.
Her expression was controlled, held together by force. But underneath?—
Fear.
26
The heat hitHarper like a slap.
After days of sub-zero air, wet wool, and cold numbing every exposed inch of her, the inside of the apteka was overwhelming. Close, stuffy, radiator-warm in the aggressive way of Soviet-era buildings—cranked to maximum because winter lasted nine months and subtlety had no place in survival.
Her face burned. Her fingertips stung as blood returned to them. Pav’s jacket steamed faintly, releasing wet wool, sweat, and the sour grime of days on the run.
She tried not to think about how bad she smelled. It wasn’t the priority.
Her eyes adjusted to the dim light. A single yellow fluorescent tube buzzed overhead, one end dark, the other flickering in a dying staccato. The air held the astringent reek of ethanol, dried herbs, and old cardboard. The staleness of a room unchanged for decades.
The apteka was narrow, with one counter running the length of the back wall. Glass-fronted cabinets behind it were crammed with tincture bottles, paper twists of powder, and old pill boxes. Above her head hung linen bags of dried herbs.
In the corner, a small television burbled quietly, punctuated by tinny laughter, playing a Russian game show—contestants in sparkly dresses, a host in a loud suit gesturing at something off-screen. The picture was grainy and the colors leaned green.
An icon hung above what Harper guessed was the storeroom door. Candle smoke darkened the saint’s face. A red votive burned beneath it, the flame guttering.
